Fly
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: Life is weird. So is this. Enjoy.


He was the last person she expected to find on her doorstep.

She wanted to poke him, make sure he was real. She wanted to throw her arms around him and never let him go, but she was too afraid he'd evaporate into a wisp of smoke.

The thought brought tears to her eyes.

She realized she should be speaking, but he wasn't saying anything either. She looked deep into his eyes and tried to read him, wondering if she even knew how anymore, if she ever had to begin with.

In a way, he wasn't real.

Because she was hopelessly in love with Tony DiNardo, and this was Anthony DiNozzo standing in a doorway in Africa, looking at her like he couldn't believe he was there either.

Suddenly, she wanted to do more than poke him. She wanted to hit him, to fly at him screaming and let every ounce of her betrayal batter him as it had made her bleed.

"Can I help you, Special Agent DiNozzo?"

His pain was instantly visible and though she had wanted it seconds before, she realized it was unwelcome now.

"I shouldn't have come."

She could feel his confusion, and she cursed having ever written that note. But without it, if she hadn't scribbled those words with no hope of anything ever coming of it, he wouldn't be here now.

"I hate you," she whispered. As she put her arms around him.

She stood on tiptoe, pressing her face into his neck and smelling the warm, clean scent that had been haunting her senses since she got on the plane. She had almost run off that plane a hundred times. She had imagined herself rushing up to the attendant, throwing open the door and sprinting back up the gangway. She wasn't entirely sure how she had gotten on the plane in the first place. And a small, silly part of her had been waiting for Tony to burst through that door, panting from his sprint through the airport and ready to pledge his eternal love for her.

Was that what he was doing now? Just by being here?

She pulled back, feeling the pain she saw in his eyes at the broken contact.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady. "Could you forgive me?"

When she had written the note, she had meant it. But her head and her heart had fought a thousand wars since that moment.

"I meant it," she said, watching something dangerously close to hope bloom in his verdant eyes. It wasn't until that exact moment that she knew. She couldn't do it. There were mere inches between them now, but the space was filled with a thousand lies.

"Then," she added, watching him take the soft word like a kick in the chest.

There was a long pause during which he did not breathe, and just when she was starting to get worried, he spoke.

"I'm sorry I came here," he said. "I didn't mean to upset you all over again. I just had to know."

She nodded, almost wishing he would be angry so she could be angry back. Part of her still wanted to hit him, to scream at him, but the pain already in his eyes was too real. If she stared at it long enough, she knew she might start thinking maybe he did love her.

And maybe he did.

But the past was the past—it couldn't be changed and while it could be forgiven, it could not be forgotten. She could suddenly see them ten years down the road, maybe married, maybe with kids, and she knew she would slip occasionally, punishing him for deeds long dead. She didn't want to be that person, didn't want to be that bitter or angry, and she knew if she stayed with him, that's what she would become.

She could see he knew it was time to leave, but he just stood there, looking lost. There was so much regret in his eyes that she felt the need to offer him something.

"I'm sorry—" she started.

"No, Jeanne," he said, voice soft but firm. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

He started to lift a hand to touch her, and she prayed he wouldn't. The anguish was radiating from him with such intensity that she knew if he touched her, she would touch him back. They both desperately needed to be comforted at that moment, but she knew she was the wrong person to do it.

And he seemed to realize the same thing.

"I'm sorry, Jeanne," he said, pulling in a deep breath and taking a step back from the doorway. "For … everything."

She was glad he stopped himself before apologizing for every last lie, every betrayal, small and large. And she could see what it cost him to deny himself that unburdening.

He straightened, drawing his shoulders back, and she had to lift her chin to meet his eyes. He seemed to be waiting, and she wondered if he wanted her to slap him, to start screaming at him.

She wouldn't. Couldn't, perhaps, because she knew she needed to save her strength for the long, exhausting task of putting herself back together.

He nodded after a moment, and started to turn, pausing to look back and meet her eyes.

"I won't ask you to forgive me," he said, "because I'll never forgive myself. Please take care of yourself, Jeanne."

And then he was gone.

Hours later, still sitting on the floor just inside a door she didn't remember closing, Jeanne wished she had repeated the sentiment, told him to take care of himself, too.

After all, he wasn't just some college film professor.


End file.
